On her way to the stables she passed Land Army girls cutting back the beech hedges and raking gravel. They had long ago learned to ignore her and did not acknowledge her presence. Ruth never wasted time gossiping. On reaching the yard she was greeted by Lucy Hamilton, who popped her cheery pink face out from behind the wash-house door, waved and called out, 'Morning, Lady Campbell.'
The sight of Lucy in the floral smock that advertised her otherwise unnoticeable condition brought a surge of sick, impotent jealousy to Ruth. Why should this enemy, this thorn in Ruth's flesh, this simpering woman have everything that Ruth herself wanted? Lucy was to bear a child and, like the lowest of working women, didn't try to hide the fact. It was disgusting.
If she continued as she was going, Lucy Hamilton could soon be the owner of Ingersley estate. If only Ruth had known that Gordon meant to sell the estate to him, she would have married Mike Hamilton herself. Lucy was rich in her own right. She did not need to go to such miserly lengths as to do her own washing. There was a good laundry service in the town and the farm had all these Land Army girls idling about. It was quite plain that she revelled in pregnancy and domesticity. There were chickens scratching about on the cobbles and in the straw of the unused loose boxes. In an hour's time the stable yard would be festooned with washing lines full of sheets and tablecloths and everything calculated to frighten the horses.
If Ruth were in charge she would forbid it, but now she fought down her rage and said politely, 'Lucy? Did you pass on my message? Is Heather ready?'
'No. Mike said you might like to .. .' Her voice trailed off.
Ruth attempted a little irony, though it would be wasted. 'He said I might enjoy grooming and saddling my own animal? Is that it?' Fuming, she collected the saddle, bit and bridle from the tack room, then let herself in to Heather's loose box. The mare snickered in anticipation as Ruth lit a cigarette, tacked up and talked to her. 'We'll have a good ride out today, Heather strengthen those hocks...' With the Gold Flake in her mouth and her eyes narrowed against the smoke, she lifted the horse's feet one by one. 'Perfect. You won't need shoeing for a while.'
A shadow fell across the sunlit straw and Mike Hamilton's voice boomed out: 'Don't smoke in here. Your mare will be taken to the smiddy next week and fitted with heavy shoes.' Ruth felt the old familiar thrill of being close to him, but she shot him a contemptuous look as she took the cigarette out of her mouth and said through clenched teeth, ‘So you think you are to tell me what I may do with my own horse?'
'Your horse is needed for farm work,' Mike said curtly before stepping aside to open the door for her to lead Heather out.
'I don't think so.' Ruth put her left foot in the stirrup and mounted, quick and lithe though Heather stamped impatiently. She looked down on him. 'My light hunter is quite useless for your purposes.' Mike was behaving as if he were already master of the estate instead of a simple tenant farmer. 'Take your hands off the bridle.'
The confidence of a man who knew he was within his rights was in his sly smile as he dropped his hands. 'Well, it's no' for ye to decide, woman. The ministry is putting tight restrictions and regulations on animals. We cannae afford to feed an animal that's nae use. Major's pulling a plough. Your mare will be hitched to the milk trap from next Saturday. Take it or leave it.'
She would not deign to reply. Mike Hamilton would lose control first. He would saddle up Major and follow her down to the sands and at last have the showdown she hoped would lead to a revival of their affair.
The frozen cobblestones rang under Heather's hooves as they left the yard. She glanced back as she turned on to the lane leading to the beach. Mike Hamilton, red-faced, was waving his arms madly, signalling her to stop. She laughed and urged Heather into a trot.
Ten minutes later, with the sea sparkling on her right and the frosty buckthorn bushes glittering in the sun, she was exhilarated. She let Heather have her head. A gentle, salt laden breeze blew into Ruth's open mouth as she put her weight in her heels, lifted her seat out of the saddle, leaned over Heather's silky mane and urged, 'Go on!' They pounded down the flat sand to the old slipway, where she turned the mare, eased her left leg out, brought her right in and pressed into Heather's quarters to make the horse loop into the turn to race along the white fringes of foam. Hooves pounded wet sand. Sea water splashed up between the horses legs, soaking Ruth's jodhpurs as they raced along the water's edge.
Then she saw him again, Mike Hamilton, waving his arms like a man demented. She pretended not to notice and, head down over the horse's neck, drove Heather on into the sparkling, curling foam for the quarter-mile return, but they had not ridden this way for months and Ruth knew enough not to strain the heart of an unfit horse. She sat back in the saddle and slowed Heather down to a trot before they reached the sheltered, secluded bay area with its backdrop of buckthorn and jagged rocks above the waterline, and table-top basalt rocks which the sea had made smooth below. She brought the horse's head round and slowed to a walk as Heather picked her way between the rocks to the path that wound through the buckthorn.
He was here again, dark and angry, blocking her path. She pulled Heather up. 'What is it?' she demanded, a smile of satisfaction spreading across her face.
'Get off that horse!' He grabbed the bridle with one hand and the back of her jacket with the other and dragged her out of the saddle to the ground. She lost her balance and fell at his feet, put her hand out to save herself and wrenched her wrist. 'This beach is mined!' he shrieked. 'Can't you read? Danger. Keep Out! Ye've ridden past at least four o' the bloody things. You could have been killed.'
He pulled her to her feet and held her arms and the harshness had gone from his voice. 'Ye could have been bloody well killed...'
'And is that not what you want?' She looked up at him in the old inviting way. 'You have avoided me. Been rude to me. And now you ... ' She moved so that she was hard up against him and his smell of horses and leather and sweating, angry maleness brought a sense of triumph she must not let him see. He was excited. She could feel the hardness of him through all these layers of clothes. He could never resist her. 'You want me ... don't you?'
'Aye. But I'm not going to take you because your man is fighting a war. And I have too much respect for him - and he for me.'
'Respect was always pretty low on your scale of feelings, Mike.'
'Aye.' His eyes narrowed. 'I've come a long way in the last four months. I've aye wanted a son. I have a mighty store of respect and love now for the woman who's carrying my child.' He released her abruptly. 'Ye'll have to find another if your man's nae use to you.' Then he turned and walked away.
She mounted the snorting Heather and swore under her breath at the pain that was shooting through her arm from wrist to shoulder. What a day this was proving to be. One damned thing after another. All her plans were crumbling. Her servants were dropping like flies. Gordon was going to sell Ingersley. And if he could not impregnate her when he came home, then her only hope of having a child - through Mike Hamilton's need of her had been dashed.
How fickle men were. Six months ago Mike had been disconsolate because she, Ruth, would not marry him. Now he was like a Solan goose, strutting and posturing, guarding his broody gander on the nest.
She reached the yard and heard Lucy singing and sloshing around, happy with her tubs of soapy water. She remained in the saddle and called out impatiently, 'Lucy! Come and help me down, will you?'
'You all right?' Lucy came out, a frown of worry on her face.
'I've had a fall. Help me down.' She leaned forward, kicked off the stirrups and swung her legs over so that she need not use her wrist. Lucy put a hand out to steady her at the elbow and she was down safely. 'You'll have to water, feed and unsaddle for me. I'm hurt.'
'Oh dear. Nanny need not come to me today. You need her.'
Ruth clenched her teeth to hold back from shouting in pain, but managed to say, 'Nanny is learning to drive an ambulance this morning.'
'That's nice for her.' Lucy took the re
ins and led the horse away then stopped and turned back. 'There's a girl wandering around the estate, looking for Mrs Stewart. She came to, the farmhouse. Lost her way, 1 expect, now the South Gate's closed.'
Ruth said, 'It'll be one of the workers or a patient's visitor.'
'Well, she said Mrs Stewart,' Lucy answered. 'I sent her up to the house not ten minutes ago.'
'Damn!' Ruth uttered under her breath. Every step she took down the frosty gravel drive jolted her wrist. She must telephone the doctor. She would not go down to the hospital to ask for help. 'Double damn!'
There was a girl limping towards her, a pretty girl, dressed sensibly in a brown tweed coat and pull-on hat that could not hide the flaming red hair cascading about her neck and shoulders. She could have no business on this side of the house. Ruth put her hand gently into her pocket to support it. The girl stopped at the comer of the house. In a piercing, imperious voice Ruth asked, 'What are you doing here?'
The girl was tall, very young, and a blush came poppy red into her pale cheeks as she said nervously, 'I'm looking for Mrs Stewart. The cook.'
Well, you won't find her. Not even if you go round to the tradesmen's entrance.' Ruth tried to indicate the way she should have taken but caught her breath with the pain in her hand. 'What do you want with her?' She looked harder at the girl. Though her clothes were not of the best quality, she was not a rough type. In her manner, dress and speech she gave the impression of being well brought up. But the blush had faded and left her white and drawn as if she too were in great pain. Ruth demanded, 'How far have you come? How did you get here?'
'I walked up from the station. I couldn't find the entrance. So I walked round the wall till I came to the gates.' The girl looked all in. She began to cry, soft tears rolling down her pinched cheeks. 'I have to see Mrs Stewart.'
Ruth's hand was swelling, her fingers were numb and for the first time in her life she did not know what to do. She couldn't leave this weeping girl, who was on the brink of collapse, to find her way out again and down to North Berwick station. 'I can't stand around in the cold waiting for you to explain,' she said. 'Stop snivelling. Come back to the house with me. Tell me what you want with Mrs Stewart.'
She brought her hand carefully from her pocket and showed the girl the swollen fingers and the bruising that was spreading up from the wrist. 'Can you bandage? Have you ever bound a sprained wrist?' She looked at her closely again. 'Have I seen you before? What's your name?'
'Flora Macdonald.' The girl was trying to wipe her tears away with the back of her gloved right hand. 'I can bandage.' Then, 'I know you are Lady Campbell. I saw you on the lawn at the wedding.'
'The Hamilton wedding? Were you a guest?'
'No. Andrew brought me here to meet his Ma. You see, we..’ she caught her breath and clapped a hand to her back as if in pain. She staggered back a few steps and leaned against the wall.
'All right,' Ruth said sharply. 'Follow me,' and went swiftly to the house, with the girl, like an injured puppy, dragging along behind. She ran up the stone steps and stood back, watching the girl climb painfully slowly. Ruth indicated that she should go ahead and open the great oak door, and when she had closed it behind them said, 'Upstairs. Follow me.'
The girl made a neat job of bandaging her wrist, then asked to use the bathroom. 'Yes. Then come to the dining room. Across the hall.' Ruth went to the new drawing room to telephone Dr Russell and ask him to call in an hour's time. The rooms on this, the old bedroom floor were almost identical in size to those on the floor below. The dining room and drawing room looked much as they had before, apart from the floral wallpaper, but it rankled with Ruth that her old drawing and dining rooms were filled with iron-framed beds and all the paraphernalia of a hospital.
The girl returned. Ruth's wrist was easier for the firm bandaging. She was grateful; she would listen to the girl's story. She said, 'There will be enough food for two. Tell me all about it over lunch,' before jangling the little hand bell to summon the maid.
Over lunch, which the girl hardly touched, Ruth began to question her, drawing out her story with a kind, concerned air whilst asking herself why she was allowing another aggravation into her day. All the same she prided herself on her sixth sense; the sense that became instantly alert at times of crisis.
She soothed the girl now. 'So Andrew helped you run away from Guthrie's, where the Commander - of all people - had put you and this when you were only fourteen?'
'Yes. I told him I was seventeen.'
'And he found you a job as housekeeper to the blind Mr Davidson who lives on the Esplanade?' Ruth said, her voice warm with sympathy and encouragement.
'Yes,' Flora whispered, eyes downcast as she struggled to spoon up the leek and potato soup that Ruth had placed before her.
Ruth wanted to shake her. But if she spoke severely she might frighten the child. 'Come on! Nobody's going to hurt you.'
The girl put her spoon down. Deep, gasping sobs were shaking her shoulders as tears splashed into her soup.
Ruth repeated, 'What has this to do with Mrs Stewart?'
'It's about Andrew and me.' She mopped her face with the table napkin. 'I'm sorry. We're married.'
‘How could they be? Ruth would have known. 'Married?'
'Yes. On the day of the wedding. By habit and repute. I was only fifteen. I couldn't marry and I couldn't tell Andrew why.' All this between great gulps of tears. 'So Andrew bought the rings..' here the girl pulled on a ribbon from under the neckline of her dress and brought out a cheap wedding ring. 'and now..' She was overcome with the dreadful snivelling again.
Ruth was temporarily shocked into silence. Then realisation dawned. Her mind started to focus sharply as it did when something momentous was afoot. It was uncanny the way so often she could spot an opportunity or rather, she thought, an opening, an answer to her own dilemma -in others' troubles. 'You are having a baby?' she said.
'Yes.'
‘And Andrew Stewart is the father?'
‘Yes.'
‘And he told you to get in touch with his mother if you had a problem?'
‘Yes.' The girl was breathing deeply into the napkin she was holding to her face.
Ruth needed a few moments to order the thoughts and possibilities that were crowding into her mind. So - it had happened on the very day that she herself had hoped to become pregnant. This girl had been sent to her. No girl wanted a child out of wedlock. Her mind raced down the bright, shining path of imagined possibilities. If you showed a troubled girl the way out she would often take the required action for herself. All one need do was to show the way, leave the gates open. How fortunate for herself that the girl had not found Mrs Stewart. A dependent mother and baby -the shame of knowing her son was responsible -was the last thing on earth the cook would want. 'You are sure of the date of conception?' she asked softly, gently. She was the girl's only hope.
'The second of September. The day of the wedding.' The girl twisted the napkin into a rope.
Ruth touched her arm. 'Take your time. Try to eat .’ There was a pot of coffee on the heated stand on the sideboard and Ruth went to pour for them. 'What did you say your name was, dear?'
'Flora Macdonald. Only I'm known to Mr Davidson as Flora Stewart -because...' and the girl went on to tell her, between snatches of tears and sips of coffee, about the search for work.
When she finished, Ruth said, quietly and deliberately, 'You deceived Andrew and your employer then?' The girl was sixteen now. It would make no legal difference though Flora obviously thought it would.
'I had to ... I was afraid to tell the truth after the first lie.'
A girl of sixteen was no match for Ruth. 'You realise that Andrew could have gone to jail?'
Flora unwound the napkin and blew her nose vigorously into it. Then she caught her breath and eased her back. Ruth took the napkin from her and handed her a handkerchief and her own, clean table napkin.
The girl looked up, whey-faced and terrified. 'Yes.'
'Quite
. And now you tell me that this - this common-law marriage was consummated in St Cuthbert's churchyard on the second of September when you were only fifteen?' It .crossed Ruth's mind to wonder how many more babies were conceived on that night, but she fought back the urge to be cruel and said in a soft, sisterly way, 'That was very, very wrong of you, Flora. You have put Andrew into the position of committing two criminal acts. Once in helping you escape from Dr Guthrie's and secondly in marrying a minor.'
'I know. I just kept getting in deeper ...' Flora ignored the handkerchief but mopped her eyes with her table napkin. 'I had nobody.'
So nobody knew, except herself and Flora. Ruth asked, 'You are telling the truth? Andrew does not know about the baby?'
'I haven't told him.'
'And nobody knows you have come here?'
'Only some officials on North Berwick station. They wrote down the names of everyone who got off the train. They were all looking for billets and I didn't know what ...'
'Yes, yes. That's nothing. That's not what I meant,' Ruth said. 'You realise that any scandal would put an end to Andrew's chances of advancement - particularly with the Commander, who has helped him so much?’ She waited a moment, watching the girl’s terrified face. 'You know that the Royal Navy has prison cells on board ship? You know that these are very serious charges? If a sailor commits a civil criminal act it is far worse for him to be tried by court-martial.' Ruth knew very well that a civil case would never be heard in a military court - but Flora could not know it.
'I didn't know ... I didn't know ... I don't know any more.'
'You know what happens to girls who have babies out of wedlock?'
Flora buried her face in the napkin. 'They put you in the workhouse and take the baby away.’
Ruth reached across and patted her hand. 'I'm trying to help. Dry your eyes.'
The Weeping Tree Page 16
